He Was
by Aurora Borealia
Summary: They didn't even have a body to bury after the encounter on the Reichenbach falls, but the people who knew Sherlock in life gather on a rainy day at a makeshift funeral to remember all the things Sherlock Holmes was. One-shot, pre-slash. T for safety.


**_Soooooooo, hello! I am back after months of not posting any story giving you a one-shot that probably wasn't what any of you were hoping for *ducks at the things people are no doubt throwing at me* I am seriously sorry about my slow poke-ness. I technically shouldn't have even written this (I did it during school. Shh! Don't tell!), but I really hope you like it. Thanks for reading and sticking with me through my real life BS. You all are so awesome! - AB_**

He Was – A Sherlock One Shot

John was, in a word, grateful that everyone had shown up at the funeral home at such short notice. They had been nothing but kind to a phone call that woke them from their sleep at three in the morning the day John had come home from Switzerland. No judgment, no wondering why they had gone in the first place, just agreement to come and pay honor to the man who had irked them for years.

Looking around the parlor room, John scanned the faces of everyone around him. Molly had just entered from outside, her face marked with tear stains and the flesh around her eyes skimmed and streaked with black as though she had tried several times to reapply mascara in vain before tears broke through it again. She looked exactly how John felt.

Her eyes drifted tiredly over the scene until she spied him and hurried over, which admittedly wasn't very fast. The joints of her legs seemed to be stuck and rusty, as though just walking through the memories was painful. When she finally made it up to him, he wrapped her in a hug, both of them mutually supporting each other. When they broke apart at last, she kissed his cheek lightly.

"I'm so sorry for your loss." She said, her face a mask of tragedy, "How are you doing?"

He debated lying and telling her he was fine, but that wouldn't be fair to a girl who had been nothing but kind to him since day one. He simply shook his head and she understood, giving him a final hug as if to tell him to be brave. He was happy for it and returned it, his eyes too dry to cry despite the way his heart tugged. Molly gave him the shakiest of smiles as they broke apart and then retreated to talk to Mrs. Hudson, leaving John to stand vigil once again and to take condolences alone. He went back to scanning the scene in front of him.

This last night and this morning were largely a blur for John. Reichenbach…was that calamity really just from yesterday afternoon? It seemed a thousand years away. He had searched, not comprehending in fullness what had occurred, just searching in vain although every bit of doctor and soldier told him it was impossible to still be alive after that fall. It was two hundred and fifty feet straight down with rocks and an endless torrent of water waiting at the bottom.

Yes, it was impossible, but that didn't mean John stopped trying. All the way down, just screaming the name and at the bottom doing it over and over and over again until his lips were chapped and his throat enflamed. At the end, he was left without a voice and without a friend, holding a coat that wouldn't possibly ever fit him as he knelt at the precarious edge and looked into the spray without purpose.

It was about an hour later that he had forced himself back to the town to collect his things. From there it was to the airport in silence and boarding a plane back home without so much as a sound. He wasn't sure he had it left in him to make sounds. He sat in silence all the way back to London without fully comprehending. It finally hit him with full furry as he slumped at the door well after midnight and fussed with his keys to the flat, getting the door open at long last and stumbling in.

The sight of the empty flat cut through him like a physical wound and he fell to the ground, burying his face in the coat as he cried softly. The thought of what happened upset him to the point of becoming physically ill and he ran to the bathroom and vomited twice. After resting his head against the wall and trying to stop the churning in his stomach, John struggled to his feet and into the kitchen, devoutly committed to washing the taste out of his mouth with a bottle of scotch.

It was only when he was completely drunk that he allowed himself to weep unabashed until he was fit to be tied. John wept until he was almost positive he would never be able to shed a tear ever again. When his eyes went dry he attempted to reason with God. Maybe if he screamed enough, it would put everything right.

His face upturned to the ceiling, John begged for things to be better. It was an endless stream, of "please, take me" and "Why him and not me? Why him?" and other colloquiums that hurt him all the more. Ever since Afghanistan he had felt a bit useless. So why was he allowed to continue on while someone how had done so much in his life was snatched up? It was more unfair than even John knew life could be.

Somewhere on the suspension bridge between bargaining and depression, John heard footsteps from upstairs and a soft knock at the door. For one crazy moment, John thought that maybe someone had heard the prayers he was screaming and that he had come home. But the whisper made it clear that was just dreaming. It was Mrs. Hudson. She normally slept with earplugs in, but the ungodly row John had been making must have woken her up.

"John, dear. Are you alright?" she was asking through the door, "I heard you shout but I couldn't make out the words. Did something happen?"

He stumbled over to the door and pawed at it until he managed to wrench it open. Mrs. Hudson was standing there, looking concerned but normal, a pink bathrobe gathered around her thin frame.

"John, you _are_ home, I-" she stopped short. One look at John's bloodshot eyes must have told her something was very, very wrong, "John, what's the matter?"

Sobering up slightly, John ignored the pounding in his head and began to weep again tearlessly.

"Sherlock's gone." He choked out.

It was the first time he had spoken the words out loud and as he did, he realized his voice didn't sound like it belonged to him. In front of him, Mrs. Hudson's face fell and her eyes welled up almost immediately.

"Oh, oh no." was all she said and grabbed out for John, who held her tightly as they both cried.

They ended up sitting on the couch, clutching each other for hours before John was finally ready to tell her what happened. She listened with silence, her eyes welling up with tears. By the time it was all said and done, it was very early in the morning.

"Maybe we should start organizing a funeral." Mrs. Hudson suggested.

"What's the use?" John asked, burying his face in his hands, "We don't have a body. I couldn't find him."

Mrs. Hudson reached out her hand to touch his shoulder.

"You don't need a body to remember someone." She said gently, which caused John to begin to cry again.

So despite the fact that it was early, Mrs. Hudson and John began the calls. John called Mycroft first out of curtsey. When John gave him the news, Mycroft made a slight, non-distinct sound and paused for a while before agreeing to come. Then went the calls to Lestrade, the rest of the Scotland Yard unit that had worked with Sherlock and people like Mike Stumford and Molly.

As they stood in the parlor, Mrs. Hudson was now wearing a long black gown with a black shawl over her shoulders. Molly had an arm around her while she cried. Mrs. Hudson and her husband had been unable to conceive children, so Sherlock was the closest thing she'd ever had to a son. And now he was gone. If she felt as empty as John did, he wasn't quite sure how she was still going on.

Lestrade was milling about quietly, hands in his pockets like he wasn't quite sure what to do. Mycroft was sitting with a Blackberry-less Anthea, talking to a tall woman with greying black hair. John had never met the woman, but he was almost positive she was Sherlock's mother. She had the same nose and jawline along with the same probing eyes.

She looked positively bereaved as she held her surviving son's hand, tears running down her face. Mycroft was speaking to her gently with Anthea beside him, staring blankly as tears filled her eyes. Mycroft simply reached up and stroked her hair with his free hand. It was the first time John had seen any indication of something between the two other than guessing blindly. Even in the face of sorrow, people could still show they cared.

Normally he would have been standing next to a coffin, but since there was nothing to put inside of a coffin, John had placed Sherlock's coat down as a memorial. Understanding the sentiment, people placed flowers across it or little items that would have meant something to him: John himself had placed Sherlock's phone among the roses and lilies, Mycroft had placed a small childhood souvenir, and so on.

Currently, Anderson and Donovan had just walked in, both looking very sad, despite the fact that they hadn't much cared for Sherlock in life. Donovan was holding a two large bouquets, one of lilies and lilacs and another of chrysanthemums. Upon seeing John, she hurried over and hugged him tightly.

"I'm so glad you made it." He said truthfully, "Thank you for coming."

"Of course, John." Donovan said kindly, "None of us wanted to see something like this happen…"

She took a pause and a moment to regain her composure before clearing her throat.

"These are for you." She said, handing John the bunch of chrysanthemums.

"Th-thank you." John replied, gathering the flowers in his arms gratefully.

Both Donovan and Anderson patted his shoulders before moving over to the coat and placing the remaining bouquet on top of it. They stood respectfully for a moment before hurrying off to sit.

John loitered for a few moments longer, before figuring everyone had arrived and heading over to where Molly and Mrs. Hudson stood. He just caught the last snippet of conversation.

"I feel awful about it all." Molly was saying regretfully, "I just can't believe I didn't know about Jim…what he was."

After their narrow escape from their first encounter with Moriarty, Sherlock and John found it necessary to tell Molly of Moriarty's treachery to protect her. She was shocked, but kept him underfoot to get a good idea of what he was doing. She was completely shocked to find out he had been responsible for Sherlock's death and took it rather hard. She stopped speaking as she saw John walk up.

"I think I'm going to start it now." John said and she nodded.

Putting an arm around Mrs. Hudson, Molly led her off to the chairs and began to pass the word to everyone who was milling about. They nodded before taking their seats and John was left to walk the distance between the makeshift memorial and the podium nearby. The walk was just about a meter or two, but felt like half a day away.

Only once before in his life did a walk so short feel so long and it was back in Afghanistan. John had risked his life that day to save a patient. As both a doctor and a soldier, he refused to leave a patient behind. Walking out solo in the gap between safety and certain death on the other side was like walking the gap between Heaven and Hell for a million years. Just a few meters…it ended with him being shot, but it saved his patient, so it was worth every movement.

John walked behind the podium automatically and curled his fingers over the edge. What could he say about a man who had meant so much to so many? He felt more than a little inadequate as he cleared his throat, all eyes on him.

"Um…hello. I-I want to start by thanking you all for coming." John said, "I know Sherlock wouldn't have cared about a memorial service. 'What do I care about what people think now?' he would say. But it means a lot to me that you all came, especially on such short notice.

"I'm not good at this at all. I've been thinking about what to say for the past three hours and I still don't know. What _can_ I say?"

John shuffled his feet behind the podium, thankful no one could see it.

"Sherlock Holmes was brilliant? Well yeah, we know that. He made a point to remind us of that fact at least seven times an hour."

A few of the sad faces upturned in little smiles and tiny laughs. Many people nodded their heads slightly in agreement.

"Sherlock Holmes was cool under pressure? I suppose he was, yes. Sherlock Holmes was good at the violin…um, no. That he was not."

A bit of laughter followed.

"_That's good, isn't it?"_ John though. His ability to somehow joke was proof he wasn't completely dead inside.

"But all of that is what Sherlock _did_, not what he _was_. There is so much more than just all that. He was terrifyingly smart and a bit self-centered. He was cold about everything. He was irreplaceable. He was dangerous and unpredictable and completely mental. And he was _so_ damned annoying."

Everyone in the room let out a laugh and nodded emphatically, even as they cried at the sight of Sherlock's coat sans its owner and his flatmate sans friend.

"But…despite all that, he was the greatest friend I have ever had."

John stepped off of the podium and walked over to the area where Sherlock's coat was draped. Deftly, he reached up and pulled out the single white flower that he had placed in the pocket of his suit coat and rested it among the other mementos.

"Goodbye, Sherlock. I'll miss you."

He crossed his hands in front of him and bowed his head silently, praying to God that the rest of them couldn't tell he was crying. He wiped his tears after a second a turned around to find they were all crying as well, heads downturned to stare at the floor.

"Thank you so much for coming everyone. We're serving tea in the next room over if you'd like to stay. Also, anyone who'd like to stay after tea to help clear everything out, it would be much appreciated."

As everyone began to shuffle into the next room over, John gently took the corners of Sherlock's coat and folded it over, carefully concealing everything people had placed on it. Over the murmur of voices, John heard one voice he had known all his life.

"Johnny, you're speech was beautiful. Really, it was."

It was the same voice that had greeted John at the flat this morning, the same voice he hadn't heard in years. Even though he knew she was there (for God sake, she was the one who had given him a ride), the sound of Harry's voice was still a surprise. He turned around to see her holding the box he had left at his seat. He had intended to put Sherlock's coat in it and she held it out for him so he could do so. John smiled gratefully to her and placed the budging garment inside.

"I'm sorry he's gone, John." She said, repeating the words everyone else had rehashed as she set the box down.

John couldn't say he blamed everyone for being so repetitive. After all, what could you say at something like this?

"I know you are, Harry." He said gently, "You coming means the world to me."

When he and Mrs. Hudson were calling people to invite, John purposely dodged calling Harry. They hadn't spoken in so long, what would be the point? But sure enough, Harry tracked him down herself upon seeing the news of Sherlock's death in the paper and reading that John had a connection with the Holmes family as a close, personal friend.

Her eyes became misty as she spoke,

"Of course, John. You're my brother and with all that was going on between us before…I had to make it right."

John pulled his sister into his arms and hugged her tightly.

"I love you, Johnny. I always have, I always will."

"I love you, too, Harriet."

When they finally broke apart ages later, Harry reached up and wiped a bit of moisture out of her eyes that was threatening to crest and ruin her mascara.

"This all just gave me a fantastic idea, John." She smiled, pulling out her phone and beginning to scroll through the contacts.

"Who are you calling?"

She bit her bottom lip and gave John a slight smile as she found the number she was looking for.

"Clara." She replied, "You inspired me to try."

She kissed John on the cheek before hurrying off to a quiet room, her phone to her ear. John knew Harry had turned around a lot since they had last spoken. He was happy for her, really he was. Then why did he still feel so empty?

With a sigh, John began taking the flower arrangements from their various pedestals and setting them next to the box. He was sure everyone had left for the other room until he heard a female voice say his name quietly.

"John?" the voice asked.

For a moment, John thought it was Harry back from her phone call already, but when he turned around he saw it was Molly, shuffling awkwardly back and forth as she played with the hem of her dress.

"Oh, Molly. Hi." He said, giving her a smile despite his task of dismantling Sherlock's memorial, "I thought everyone had gone to tea."

"I, um…I had wanted to wait for you and tell you…you're speech was very nice, John."

"Well, thank you." John said, setting down one of the bouquets Scotland Yard has sent, "I appreciate that."

However, it didn't seem like that was the only reason why Molly had come to speak with him.

"Is there something bothering you?" he asked, taking a step forward.

"John, forgive me for asking this, it's a bit straight-forward, but…" she lowered her voice, a look of embarrassment, nervousness and excitement.

"Go on, Molly. You can ask me whatever it is." John reassured her, cocking his head with curiosity.

"It's just that…" she scratched her head, "…during your speech, um…I couldn't help but notice that…well, I mean, it just seemed…"

John laughed slightly at the girl's nervousness.

"Molly, you can go ahead and say it. It's fine. Fire away."

"I-I…okay, I'm just going to come out and ask you…"

She took a very deep breath before spitting out:

"Um…John…were you in love with Sherlock?"

The question took John aback so much that he almost staggered, yet at the same time he couldn't help but smile at the way Molly's eyes sparkled when she asked. It was as though the thought helped her get over the tragedy. John knew Molly was quite perceptive and he trusted her a lot. Other people may have just dodged the question and not told her, but she didn't deserve that. He may as well tell her the truth.

Flashing her a small smile as if to say, "ah, you are good" John nodded his head slightly.

"Yeah, I was. I guess actually a better question is '_are_ you in love with Sherlock' because I still am, really. And I don't think I'll ever stop being in love with him."

Molly grinned slightly, obviously relieved that John wasn't insulted by her question.

"And do you think…do you think maybe he was in love with you, too?" she wondered aloud.

It was a question that John had contemplated many times before, but it was only now that Sherlock was gone did he allow himself to explore it fully. He thought about all of those smiles that were just for him, all the soft words, all the glances that were charged with electricity between them. A glow overcame him as he replayed the last few months of his life and he felt a blush creep into his cheeks.

"_Sherlock, you prick."_ He thought fondly, _"All that time and you never said anything to me. I suppose we're even now."_

He smiled slightly, knowing there was no doubt to the question.

"Yes," John said emphatically, "he was."

**_So, before you ask, there will most likely be a follow up multi-chap to this. :D However, I dunno when I'll be able to write it and get it up by. *shakes head at my own failness* Since I can never stick to dates for stuff, if you want more info on what's going on with "Cripple" or any other stuff, feel free to shoot me a PM. Thanks again for reading! Much love - AB_**


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